


The Bone Eater

by lexadaisical



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Violence, Mystery, Silkpunk, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, mentions of cannibalism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 18:20:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20295898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lexadaisical/pseuds/lexadaisical
Summary: Minhla lives a comfortable life sourcing luxury and semi-illegal items for the rich and powerful. It's not the life he wanted but it's the one he's stuck with. One night a semi-regular client comes to him with an unusual request; his help smuggling an apparently reformed terrorist into the city so the old man can have a heart to heart.Before Minhla knows it, the client ends up dead and he's knee deep in a whole bunch of bodies with parts missing. It soon becomes apparent that there is more to the situation. Minhla knows he's going to need help and unfortunately that helps has taken the form of a dour, guilt ridden reformed terrorist with an attitude problem.





	The Bone Eater

**Author's Note:**

> This is an utterly un'beta'd piece of work so apologies in advance. While I normally appreciate con-crit, I would ask that you refrain because it is more than likely to have me rewriting old parts than focusing on working on the new. 
> 
> Please also note this is a story set in a semi-Burmese/Myanmar fantasy counterpart. There will be unfamiliar words and I will not be italicising them, however there will be definitions at the end. I wrote this in part because I wanted to see Burma represented in western sff. I am proud of my heritage and culture.
> 
> 26/04/20: New/Different chapter 1

There was a well known song about moonless Yagine nights that went something like, ‘the sweet, sultry heat for lovers and thieves, my lips to yours as the clouds a-weaves.’ It was one of those trite melodies that university students sang when they were deep into their cups and a pretty face turned their eyes. As Minhla stepped out of the club, he thought that a better description of the heat that hit his face was ‘suffocating.’ 

Nines, it was unbearable. Especially after spending the last few hours inside the grandest drinking hall on the Yagine east side, where every single room was aggiya cooled and the drinks came with large chips of ice bobbing in them. He was sweating and he hadn’t been out here more than half a minute.

Minhla was almost of a mind to step right back into the hall; his gaming tablemates would be happy to welcome him back, he was sure. They had won plenty from him tonight and would be looking to win some more. 

But, no, he told himself sternly. Gaming always lead to more drinking. His vision was already starting to get fuzzy around the edges, any more and his reflexes would go. He hadn’t even had much--compared to the amount he could put away, anyway--but his tolerance wasn’t what it used to be. Not much about him was what it used to be. 

“Is this Minhla I see having an early night?” 

Minhla turned to find the source of the shout. Little lordling Saw Yun, haphazardly dressed and well drunk on toddy wine, eyes glazed over by something much stronger than alcohol. His steps were stumbling and Minhla was honestly surprised he managed to walk all the way over without falling. 

Unfortunately, along with Saw Yun came the flagrant stench of piss and vomit. It was hard to tell if Saw Yun had picked up the smell from his surroundings or originated it himself, and Minhla had no desire to find out. He tried to be subtle about leaning away from the man, but he doubted Saw Yun would have noticed it short of Minhla running away screaming. 

“Saw Yun,” Minhla said as he clicks his finger at the concierge to fetch him a carriage. “Coming or going?” 

“The latter but I much prefer the former,” said Saw Yun with a leer. Minhla supposed that passed for witty in certain circles. 

Minhla looked back to the street, praying to the Nines that the carriage might arrive soon and save him from this conversation. He had nothing personal against Saw Yun, really. The man was simply intolerable when he had alcohol in him, which was most of the time. Not only that, Minhla needed to be at the traindocks in half an hour. Before he could feign a reason he had to be across the road all of a sudden, Saw Yun leaned over and said, in a volume just shy of a shout, “D’you have any more of that stuff? The—the snuffs…the sniffs. Need something a little extra tonight, I think.” 

Fighting not to gag at the riot of smells coming from Saw Yun, Minhla smiled and said in a mild-mannered voice, “Something extra? I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” Then he turned, casual as he pleased, to look around at their very public surroundings before looking back to Saw Yun. 

A spark of intelligence came to life in Saw Yun’s dull, insipid pair of eyes. It flickered out quickly enough but the effects lingered, and Saw Yun jerked away. “Ah, right, ‘course. Sorry, I got confused,” he said, volume now comically quiet, eyes darting around anxiously. 

After letting Saw Yun stew in paranoia for a moment, Minhla took pity on the man. He reached into a pocket of his over-robe—one of many that had been sewn in after purchase—and retrieved a folded cloth parcel, no bigger than a wad of betel chew and painted the same verdant green. Smiling, he reached over and slipped the parcel into Saw Yun’s hand, saying, “No harm done. Here, something for the confusion.” 

Saw Yun looked down at his now full hand, took several moments to recognise what he held, then looked up with a wide grin. “You’re a good man, Minhla.” 

“Feel free to tell that to all your friends, Saw Yun,” Minhla said with an answering grin, clapping his hand on Saw Yun’s shoulder. “We’ll have to catch up later though, my ride is here.” 

It was with no small amount of relief that Minhla watched a sleek, black carriage come to a stop before him, its lamp swinging wildly and scattering aggiya-crafted green light across the cobblestone. In quick order; he waved farewell to Saw Yun, gave the address for a club near the traindocks, and was inside the carriage, which was blessedly empty. 

Minhla’s shoulders dropped and he let himself relax for the short ride down to the dock. He was feeling out of sorts tonight, with a familiar itch under his skin. The one that made him want to put on his boots, grab that always ready travel bag hidden under a floorboard, and walk until the light of the city was far behind him. The only thing that kept him rooted were the promises he had made.

Those kinds of nights, he needed to keep moving, occupy his mind and body with activity until he collapsed into bed, exhausted. Tonight it was worse than usual, not something quelled by company and gaming. Perhaps, if he was lucky, he might stumble into an altercation at the docks and relieve that itch in a visceral, violent way. 

The rhythmic small jolts of the carriage as it went over cobblestone road transitioned to something much rougher, signaling its entry to the equally rough neighbourhood of the Kyaukni District. Here, trains carrying cargo came and went from all corners of the empire; from the port city of Kyauksein to the furthest border station at the foot of the Tai Lun range. The entire district was a traindock with patches of buildings here and there to break up the monotony. Four main roads cut through the district, curving up every time it crossed paths with a train track. Those curves were too steep for a carriage hence why Minhla had to be dropped off at a club at the outer border of the district. From there it was a short walk to the rickshaw ranks where he hired the first one he saw. 

Like the carriage, the rickshaw was aggiya-crafted and the driver had only to steer. The brush of wind against his face and the bitter smell of coal smoke made some of the itch under Minhla’s skin settle. If he tried hard enough, he could imagine that he was about to step onto a cargo train and be on his way out of this Nine cursed city. 

Cargo trains arrived in Kyaukni District coming in from the west, and their first stop was at the offloading bays. This was where, as the name suggested, every piece of cargo came off the trains and were loaded onto carts to be delivered to the appropriate warehouse. Large companies had their own carts, drivers and warehouses, while smaller companies shared those among themselves. 

Minhla belonged in the latter category, and had rented a share of a medium sized two-storey warehouse in the northeast corner of the district. He had two rooms; a small one to act as an office and the larger one served as storage. When he arrived outside the building, the lights were still on in the windows of his rooms and the panes were thrown wide open. It was even muggier and hotter down in the docks due to the steam from trains and the factories over in the next district, so windows opened where they could and offices kept cooling seals going for as long as possible. 

The driver of the rickshaw remained seated as Minhla disembarked, and waited patiently as he dug out a few coins for payment. He added a few extra because it never hurt to be generous and though he was not a follower of the Enlightened Path their teachings had stuck with him. Good deeds beget good karma and he needed all the good karma he could get. 

Inside, the first floor of the warehouse was as busy as ever; clerks and labourers scurrying from one corner to another in an intricate dance as overseers yelled instructions. Minhla stood out among the workers in his green and silver pasoe, and crisp white cotton shirt but that was not a bad thing. At least it made people try to avoid him. Still, it was a dangerous game of dodge for Minhla to make his way to the main stairs leading up to the second floor, and he was nearly clipped in the shoulder by a labourer carrying three heavy bags on her back. 

Upstairs, it was calmer, so much so it was like stepping from the edge of the storm into the very eye. The owners of the warehouse had invested in noise buffering seals embedded into the very wood of the floor, refreshed every five years. It was one of many small details that made Minhla choose this warehouse over any cheaper ones in the vicinity. 

His rooms were at the end of the long corridor that stretched from one end of the warehouse to the other, and identifiable by his name etched into the frosted glass window of the main door. Minhla walked past similar doors on the way, some had movement and light behind them, others were dark and still. He tried his office door handles and found it unlocked. 

There were two identical women in the office when he entered, and he could hear someone else moving around in the storage room. He identified the women by where they were placed. Ma Yoe was huddled over the main desk, the ledgers open before her, while Ma Cho stood by with another ledger balanced on one hand and a pen in the other. 

As Minhla walked in, Ma Yoe said, voice loud as a brass bell, “A tiger statue and a tuskless elephant statue in Pyinsithaw jade with gold accent?” From inside the storage room, there was a muffled repetition of Ma Yoe’s words, and Ma Cho nodded to herself as she ticked off something in her ledger. 

At the door’s opening, Ma Yoe and Ma Cho both looked up, the former with a scowl that failed to abate when they recognised their employer at the threshold. 

“Why are you here so early?” Ma Yoe demanded, as if she were the owner of the establishment. Minhla took no offence, he might be funding the enterprise but it only ran as smoothly as it did because of Ma Yoe, who was a boxer turned warehouse supervisor when an injury forced her into retirement. Minhla poached her from her former employer approximately ten years ago with the promise of an outrageous wage and a share in the business, and had never been given cause to regret it. 

“Thought I would check in on my beloved workers. Make sure they’re still in one piece, their morales still up and so on,” said Minhla airily as he sauntered inside, closing the door behind him. 

“Oh dear, did you lose too much money at the tables so early in the night?” Ma Cho asked in that sweet, polite way that turned simple words into verbal slaps. 

Minhla clutched at his chest and staggered in place. “A mortal wound! Please, no more.” 

At least it got a smile out of Ma Yoe, though that disappeared quickly enough under another scowl. “You can make yourself useful then. Into the store room and help Yin with the boxes.” 

It was no fight but it might do. He just had to keep moving. So he threw his over-robe onto an empty chair and changed into his working clothes behind a screen in the corner. Yin greeted him with a nod and moved over to give him room. Together, they spent the next three-quarters of an hour sorting out the wares and placing them on the appropriate shelf to be later labeled and sent by messengers to the receiver. 

The lightfoot feeling was still there when they finished, though much less than at the start of the day. He hefted the last box into place and stepped back to take a deep breath and stretch. He was sweating but not so badly he needed to bathe right then and there. A wipe down would be enough. He checked his watch—yes, enough time to wipe down, change and grab some tea with the sisters. 

When he emerged from the store room, Ma Cho was packing up the ledgers while Ma Yoe paid Yin for their work. Minhla used the time to duck behind the screen again, where a pitcher of water and a towel waited courtesy of Ma Cho. He wiped his face, arms, chest and as much of his back as he could reach before he changed back into a fresh set of threadbare pasoe and shirt. By the time he emerged, Yin was gone and the ledgers had been locked away. 

The table was clear of everything except for a cast iron kettle sitting on a heating stone, and three clay mugs. Minhla could smell the earthy, bittersweet tang of Tai Lun tea starting to steep. It was a tradition for Minhla to sit down with the sisters at the end of the week and go over the details of the business. He liked to be involved in his business, more so now that he was based in Battawadi and had the time. 

“So,” he said as he sat down at his usual chair. “Tell me everything.” 

“There’s drama at the Tai Lun border,” Ma Yoe said, with a roll of her eyes. “So anything from further north is being delayed.” 

That was hardly an unusual occurrence. “Bandits or diplomatic trouble?” Minhla asked, accepting his cup from Ma Cho.

“Official reports say bandits, unofficial reports say they are very well armed for bandits.” 

That sounded about right. The Tai Lun range was a powder keg waiting to explode into open warfare at any moment. Three hundred years since Yagine had laid claims to the Tai Lun range, and every single one of those years had been a struggle. The three hundred yoza long range was occupied by an uncountable number of hill tribes, none of whom felt like bending the knee to the flatlanders but were too spread out to mount a proper attack. They sent the bare minimum of tributes to the empire with one hand while sending raid parties with the other. 

“The new border Justice is unpopular,” Ma Cho interjected. “They’ve been hiking up punishment and taxes alike.”

“How long have they been there?”

Ma Cho tilted her head and chewed on her bottom lip. “Four months? Almost five now. Rumours say they’ll last another month before being reassigned.”

The longest a border Justice lasted was eight months and three days. His body had never been found. 

“Normally, I’d say let the shipments wait…”

Ma Yoe nodded. “Except that this one contains perishables,” she finished for him. “Our options come down to greasing the wheel some more, though that will get costly. Getting the product through via the gild, again costly, though not as much. A third option is airship—move the products back to Vyrantia . It’ll take longer but it’s the cheapest of the three and safest.”

Minhla knew what his answer would be even as Ma Yoe laid the facts out, and from the resigned expression on her face, she knew it too. “When have I ever been safe? Lets go with the gild. Promise them a box of Tovan cigars and a crate of that northern whiskey on top of the usual fee if all of the products make it in one piece.” 

There was a heavy sigh at this but Ma Yoe nodded and took a long swallow of her tea. 

That appeared to be the largest issue Ma Yoe needed to discuss with him, and the rest of the time was spent trading gossip. Ma Yoe and Ma Cho, spending most of their time in the docks, was a fount of information on the events of the empire. Or, well, any part of the empire that was part of the trade routes. 

When he heard the bell ring for midnight, he finished off his second cup of tea and bid the sisters farewell. They would close up shop then make their way home for a well deserved rest, something he probably needed. Not tonight, however. 

He already knew that tonight he would stay awake for far too long, even when his eyes started to itch, and his head started to ache. Tonight was a night for insomnia. 

Minhla travelled home via tramcar because at this time of night, they could be counted on to be nearly empty. He sat in the open-air section on top of the tramcar to enjoy the last bit of not very fresh air before home. When the tramcar topped a steep hill, for one moment the entirety of Battawadi was laid out before him in all of its breathtaking glory. 

To his left, the Mirror Palace, its lahnite walls seeming to almost shimmer under the light of the moons. To his right, the temple district, in the middle of which the royal pagoda stood tall, aglow with lights festooned at every tier. And straight ahead, the University, also unofficially called the fire district because it was huge, sprawling, and the aggiya lamps that dotted the roads and the outside of the university buildings glowed orange and red. Filling in the space between those three big structures were other points of light, some small, some almost as large. 

Viewed like this, Battawadi was almost pretty. Maybe Minhla could have even come to enjoy being in such a busy, crowded city full of secrets and information and gullible people. Unfortunately, any chance of enjoyment was overshadowed by the knowledge that he was stuck here. 

The view of the city disappeared behind buildings as the tramcar descended. There were no other hills, therefore no other opportunities to feel awe and bitterness in equal portions, before he was hopping off the tram to walk the rest of the distance home. 

Minhla lived in a quiet area very near the city limits, on a street largely filled by stationery stores. His shack of a house, which was definitely not to the standard his birthright demanded, was tucked away behind a pen and paper store, accessible by a lane just wide enough for a small cart. 

Nothing of the house could be seen from the street, which was why it was only when Minhla reached the end of the lane that he realised his study light was on. 

His first thought was to backtrack, take the time to unsheathe the blades tucked into his boots and activate the protection seal etched into the medallion that hung around his waist. Then he would sneak around to the back door and surprise whichever fool was trying to rob him. 

It was just as he was crouching down to get to his knives--hiding close to tall shrubs halfway down the lane--that he noticed the jasmine flowers on the ground a few spans away. None of the bushes along his lane were jasmine. 

His still tipsy brain took a moment to catch up. Then he breathed a sigh of relief and exasperation, stood up sans knives, and walked up to his house making no effort to hide himself. 

The front door was unlocked and there was a pair of dainty slippers lined up against the wall of the short passage that made up his entrance hallway. Minhla shuffled off his own slippers haphazardly, threw his bundle of clothes and over-robe onto his dining table when passing by, and walked into the open study saying, “It’s midnight, Ayee Mon, what in the name of the Nines?”

The stout, homely woman sitting in his reading chair looked up from her book. Zabaé Mon was the middle child of five siblings, well into her forties, liked to knit in her spare time, and probably knew thirty different ways to kill someone with her knitting needles. She had all the appearance of a middle-aged matron with chubby cheeks, smile lines, a comfortably plump body, sunspots on the back of her hand, the works. She was also the head of Domestic Intelligence. 

Ayee Mon dropped the book onto her lap, still open, and said, “Accuta was murdered three nights ago. And we’ve got reasons to suspect it had something to do with the First Sons.” 

The last of Minhla’s alcohol haze disappeared in the wake of the sudden rush of adrenaline that hit him at those words. The world came into sharp focus as a high pitch ringing noise blended with the pounding of his pulse in his ear. He managed to stagger to the other reading chair and dropped into it like a sack of grains.

“That isn’t possible,” he said, shaking his head. “We weeded them out years ago.” She had to be mistaken, or was playing a very bad joke. 

Ayee Mon remained silent, but her grim face was more than enough of a reply. 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
